Fog And Gaslight
by AutumnAtMidnite
Summary: A dispatch box for an assortment of supernatural themed fic. Non-slash. Fic #1: 'Off The Beaten Track' - Wherein Holmes and Watson are lost in the woods on Halloween night.


**Title:** Off The Beaten Track  
**Summary:** Wherein Holmes and Watson are lost in the woods on Halloween night.  
**Rating:** G  
**Warning(s):** Supernatural elements.  
**A/N:** I've been meaning to post a few of my older supernatural fics here for a while, and since my Muse has actually condescended to cooperate lately, thought this was the perfect time to start. I'm also working on a new one that will go in this collection, which, with any luck, will actually be finished by Halloween. While this is a gen fic (as everything in this compilation will be) the "L" word is dropped here, just so you know.

* * *

We were lost. Unequivocally, indisputably, and, if I may say so, quite thoroughly, lost. Deep within the Oxfordshire woods, on All Hallows Eve, with dusk steadily approaching.

Were we back in London, where my friend's intricate knowledge regarding every obscure byway, back alley, and shortcut never failed to navigate us away from the most exigent of circumstances, this niggling detail would have been of little consequence. Our position might also have been a more hospitable one had my service revolver not been cleverly pilfered from my own portmanteau by the very client who requested our services a mere eight-and-forty hours ago.

Holmes had been commissioned by one Miss Wilamena Pendleton of the Ladies Séance Society to investigate a series of singular incidents which had transpired in Oxfordshire over the past fortnight. An entire village was thrown into upheaval over the events, which, to be precise, involved the pettiest of thefts concerning items relating to the upcoming Halloween festivities. Mrs Robinson's black cat was the first reported casualty of the dastardly filching spree, followed shortly thereafter by the theft of Miss Pendleton's new Ouija board, taken through the open window of her front parlour. Morchester & Sons antiques also reported missing some sort of grotesque shriveled hand from the display window.

The most recent episode, and the very one that sent the lady to our door, was a break-in at the local chemist's shoppe, with the only unaccounted for item being a jar of the deadly nightshade plant, atropa belladonna, in it's powdered form. As a medical man, I am acutely aware of the orthodox uses of the herb, and that alone was enough to rattle my instincts. But I'd oft heard tell back in my early days at Bart's, of belladonna's more unconventional applications with the students who'd the tendency to merge mediaeval mysticism with science.

Either way, it was a recipe for a potently deadly concoction. This, of course, I pointed out to Holmes in the hopes he would see fit to look further into the matter, as the cool weather had brought with it a dry spell in interesting cases. As it turned out, the problem was outré enough to pique his interest, and so, the next morning we boarded the 9.15 train, heading off to what we believed was another run of the mill mystery my brilliant friend could shed light on before luncheon.

What we actually did step into put to shame some of the most sordid plots of any penny dreadful.

Our client, it is fair to say, was for all appearances reasonably articulate and passably sane when she made her plea at Baker Street. Therefore, it was something of a shock when, upon our arrival, her demeanour turned cold, and with the intent of sending us away claimed that the miscreants responsible for the thefts meant to conjure a league of malevolent spirits when the veil between the living and the dead parted on Halloween night. And that should we continue this investigation, our very souls would be in the gravest peril.

When Holmes goaded her into relating a more rational explanation in what was, I dare say, not his usual soothing manner, she gave us what we had by degrees become aware was a false lead and directions through the woods which were at best shoddy.

No right-minded individual can deny I am an eminently patient mortal, yet I was feeling just a bit put out, having been veritably dragged from our cozy rooms to traipse around on a bitingly chilly evening for seemingly no other purpose than to divert us from the true nature of the villainy being perpetrated on this night. Holmes was convinced the grand finale of was to occur tonight, though he failed to discern the meaning behind the thefts or why our client should go to such lengths to deceive us. Neither factor went very far in improving his humour.

Perhaps our situation might not have felt so black had we worthier provisions than a miserable looking lantern (which I am firmly convinced was a relic from the days of George I) loaned to us by the proprietor of our inn. The candle was but a guttered stump that might bequeath us with less than two hours illumination, yet to my great chagrin, Holmes staunchly denied we do the sensible thing and light it. For in my humble estimation, there was no more practical way of swiftly liberating ourselves from this maze of mire and thickly overgrown woodland if we'd even the scantiest of light to guide the way.

Regardless of how articulately I worded my persuasions, however, Holmes would not be swayed. On that note, he'd not even condescend to admitting we had indeed lost our way after that rather spectacular brush with death in the morass. The comprehension of this basic fact, as Sherlock Holmes himself might have phrased it, was but sheer child's play to the dimmest of intellects. Nevertheless, the omniscient fellow insisted our current predicament was the direct result of having temporarily mislaid our bearings.

"Exactly where," I inquired while coming to a halt before a copse of lichen covered oaks revisited thrice in the past hour, "do you deduce we have mislaid them?"

"My dear Watson," said he in that special inflection reserved for when he felt I was being deliberately obtuse. "I've not a second to spare for idle chat whilst that scheming, manipulating, conniving woman remains at liberty and we are so inconveniently - "

"Lost," I offered, like a helpful fellow.

"Strayed from the beaten track," Holmes finished, testily. Although, he was no longer paying me any heed, his attentions having been diverted to a steep uprising of earth a few paces to the east. The surrounding land was bare of trees and was the nearest thing to a clearing we'd come across throughout our elaborate tour of this godforsaken woodland.

With perfect agility, he climbed to the highest point of the hill, his gaze cast upwards to the dusky portions of sky visible the towering oaks and redwoods still in foliage. Some several minutes did he spend in such a fashion, with his thin hand shielded over his brow whilst he remained in deep contemplation of the heavens.

Far be it from my humble self to intrude upon the inner machinations of his great mind, in spite of my growing perplexity at the man's actions. Therefore, being that my leg was protesting the undue strain placed upon it to-day, I availed myself of the opportunity to settle upon a boulder, sweeping aside the blanket of leaves with my walking stick. I'd hardly made contact with my makeshift seat when the quietude of the atmosphere was interrupted by a gust of frigid wind. This in itself was nothing unusual, for I could feel in my stiff bones the weather was inclined to turn cooler with the setting sun. What unsettled me in this instance was intangible. The air felt wrong, too heavy, like the brushing of fingers against my skin. It had the same brumous quality as does fog at sea, and the shrill whistling of the wind was reminiscent of a woman's shriek in the distance.

Years of cohabitation with Sherlock Holmes have numbed me to explanations not firmly planted on logical ground, but what a liar I should be were I to insinuate our eerie, strange surroundings and the lore of the day itself had taken no effect on my mood.

My nerves were further rattled when this curious fog, with what I can only describe as purposeful intent, shifted direction and wafted over to the hill on which Holmes stood. I can give no reason for the reaction which seized me. All the same, every hair stood firmly on end at the sight of this... apparition making it's way toward my oblivious friend. I was on my feet and part way over to the hill before my brain registered I'd even stood up.

"Bah! It is no use!" Holmes ejaculated just as I was about to shout a warning. The sound of his voice cutting through the silent woods was enough to shatter the overwhelming sense of dread gnawing at my breast. I heaved a great sigh of relief, believing myself a first class fool for having been even momentarily bested by superstitions and irrationality. Until, that is, in defiance of all known natural laws, the fog receded into the shadows as Holmes passed.

My heart pounded anew, and I was broken out into a cold sweat when my friend reached me.

"It is quite impossible. These infernal trees are blocking my view! Were you aware, Watson, that celestial navigation is a far superior means of charting an area than your common map. Where the cartographer may err, the heavenly bodies - my dear fellow! What the devil has come over you?"

"That is it," I cried, somewhat maniacally. "That is precisely it! The very devil haunts these woods!"

What a sight I must have made, for instead of the customary acerbic verbal reply, all I managed to elicit from the man was a pair of raised eyebrows. Apparently, he then decided the best course of dealing with my uncharacteristic outburst was to ignore it and conduct business as usual. Or, as usual as is permitted when one is lost in the woods on an ancient Celtic holiday with a possibly irate spirit as one's travelling companion.

The minimum I felt he could do was light the blasted lantern. So we could at least see whatever restless denizen of the Underworld we were up against.

"Watson, no. I am afraid it cannot be. I have said it a thousand times tonight; we must conserve what little light this antiquated thing will afford, and visitors from another realm shall never qualify under my definition of crisis situations."

"But Holmes, be reasonable!"

"I fully intend to."

"Then light the lantern and be done with it!"

"I shan't."

"You exasperating fellow! Will you not simply admit you got us lost because of your obstinacy, and now you are making the situation worse by refusing to do the sensible thing, as it will mean conceding to the fact that you are a human with flaws?"

"Truly, I have no idea what you could possibly be referring to." he crossed his arms in a most petulant manner.

"You need spectacles, Holmes. While I am only a lowly general practitioner with mediocre qualifications, I can recognize the signs of visual impairment when I see them. You missed that turn at the creek because you never noticed it."

Holmes shot me an unduly foul glance before huffing out a great, overly dramatic burst of air through his nose. Then he turned in a north-westerly direction, his long grey traveling cloak billowing in his wake. And I, without another word, followed.

The next quarter of an hour elapsed without another sighting of the spectral sort, though heaven knows my neck was strained painfully by the time I convinced myself the threat had retreated and that every chirruping bird, cracking twig was not cause for overreaction. Holmes, meanwhile, had not uttered one syllable to me since I called him out on his refusal to admit his own humanity. For a man who was so unconventional at heart, who shunned the increasingly popular aesthetic movement, he could be deucedly puerile. Not that I could ever love Sherlock Holmes any less, but what an urge I had to throttle him right then.

I was paying more attention to my own thoughts than my surroundings, which is why, when Holmes stopped short, I nearly toppled over him. Keen grey eyes narrowed as he scanned the woods with all of his senses for some clue I could not fathom. His mysterious standstill was concluded with profanities spat in his grandmother's tongue, which began to increase in volume and colourfulness, until he reached out for my hand and pointed to a pitch black stretch of forest up ahead.

"Do you see it, Watson!"

At first glance, I was only able to make out the faint lustre of leaves as they caught the moonlight. As my eyes focused, however, it was apparent there was something else weaving downward through the branches. Something very much resembling a free floating fog. When it settled upon the ground, there were no doubts about the issue. The thing was clearly the apparition I'd seen earlier, yet where it was but a formless vapour before, it was now churning into an entity resembling human form.

"That is most definitely what I saw stalking you by the hill," I whispered in his ear.

To my horror, the apparition had morphed into the likeness of a woman, her gown of fog billowing as she glided straight towards us. My unflappable friend seemed to have met his match, for all he was capable of in that instant was squeezing my hand with a bruising force.

"How can this possibly be?"

"There are more things in heaven and earth..." I quoted, determined to maintain a brave façade for Holmes' sake. To my credit, I even managed to take a good swing at it with my stick, futile as the effort may have been. I fear this may have served naught but to rouse it's ire, for it flew at us with a piercing wail, it's features so clearly defined I was able to make out the very wrinkles on her - it's - forehead.

I gasped in shock as she glided between the two of us. "That was... that was some manner of spirit!" said I, once again showing my penchant for stating the obvious.

Holmes continued to gape for the next three and one half minutes, until he shut his mouth with an audible clack, turned to me, and simply said:

"You may light the lantern now, my dear fellow."

Which I promptly did. And in so doing, instantly alerted the inn keeper, who had taken out his dog cart to search for us after darkness fell.


End file.
